


Cavemen and Ninja Turtles

by spacekc929



Series: Dennie's Rules for Wade [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Brattiness, Corporal Punishment, Daddy Kink, Daddy/boy relationship, Discipline, Insecurity, M/M, Power Exchange, Spanking, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25991491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacekc929/pseuds/spacekc929
Summary: A naughty little boy has alienated the people he admires most through his own arrogance, and instead of reacting like a proper gentleman, he flies off the handle instead. A rough and rugged Daddy with no patience for bratty attitudes intervenes.[A Jarahn/Jackson sidestory.]
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: Dennie's Rules for Wade [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861339
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79





	Cavemen and Ninja Turtles

**Author's Note:**

> The Jarahn sidestory had to happen sooner rather than later, as it was taking up all my mental space. Be warned that Jarahn’s Daddy isn’t nice and sweet like Dennie is. But Jackson is loving in his own way, and in any event, Jarahn isn’t a fan of nice and sweet.

Frau Lick wasn’t really Jackson’s scene.

There was nothing wrong with the bar itself. It was a bit of a dive, to be sure, and the patrons were agrestic and a little lackadaisical about safety. But Jackson didn’t mind that; he’d always been a rough-around-the-edges, “Risk Aware Consensual Kink” kind of man himself, so in that sense, he fit right in.

And there were lots of pretty submissives there: dozens of lads hoping and praying for a big strong man like Jackson to bend them over a spanking bench and beat their asses black and blue. And Jackson was certainly not opposed to administering such beatings—he in fact derived great pleasure from giving a spanking and jumped on any opportunity to dole one out.

But the issue was that Jackson didn’t really want a ‘scene’: he wanted a boy to take care of, to protect, and to keep in line—all the time. He, like his friend D, was a strict Daddy: he had no tolerance for disobedience, backchat, idleness, or naughtiness. But unlike D, he wasn’t very patient, and he wasn’t very kind. Most boys needed gentleness and understanding; they thrived off clear rules and regulations with consistently applied consequences. D, always so infuriatingly perfect, had shown Jackson the Rules document that he’d drawn up for his boy: the Rules were organized and numbered, direct and succinct, giving D’s boy full notice of what was unacceptable and a complete opportunity for the boy to avoid punishment by simply following their strictures to the letter.

Jackson wasn’t like D. He didn’t have the patience for a “Rules” document, because he didn’t really have “rules.” He expected a baseline level of obedience and respect, and he judged if his boy went too far based mainly on a combination of intuition and how frustrated he was at the time. Jackson was a ‘my way or the highway’ sort of Daddy, and even he admitted that it wasn’t really ‘fair’—his boys got in trouble when he thought they were in trouble, whether or not they agreed, whether or not they’d known or even could have known at the time of their misconduct that they’d been doing anything wrong. But life wasn’t fair: the price for Jackson’s unconditional devotion was his boy’s unconditional surrender to his whims.

Jackson openly acknowledged that there simply weren’t many boys at Frau Lick—or anywhere, really—who were willing to submit to his paternalistic and capricious version of dominance. For a single scene, sure; and Jackson still went to Frau Lick every now and then to play out his meanest spanking fantasies. But fewer and farther between were boys who could, or would, acquiesce to that kind of treatment day-in, day-out, 24/7. Jackson’s total commitment to his boy’s safety and care wasn’t _that_ much of a prize in exchange…

It surprised him, then, when D called him up and said, “I think I finally found you a boy.”

D and Jackson had known each other since high school: the two of them had smoked weed together, watched porn together, and even fucked each other a few times, only to quickly realize that neither of them was particularly interested in playing the submissive role. So then they moved on to fucking boys together, which of course went about as poorly as it could have gone. Jackson said mean things and made them cry, and then D played the good cop and comforted them, and then in the end the boys went home with D without inviting Jackson. After they both decided it was better for them to go it solo, D had never once suggested a possible boy for Jackson or tried to match Jackson up with anyone. As good of friends as they were, D had a soft spot for pretty much any boy; Jackson suspected D didn’t like or respect Jackson’s rough-and-tumble, ‘take it or leave it’ style, meaning D tried protect the boys _from_ him.

So Jackson was startled and intrigued that there was a boy out there that D thought was strong enough—or perhaps stupid enough—to withstand Jackson as a Daddy. “I’ll believe it when I see him,” he laughed. “Is he a masochist or something?”

“Hah. I don’t think so. Just a supremely overconfident brat with a wicked attitude and a streak of insecurity a mile wide. I think he needs a no-nonsense sort of approach.”

His name was Jarahn, D told him. D texted him a blurry cell phone photo he’d taken of the boy—gangly, super pale, with dark hair and kind of a scowl. D said he was from New York and apparently a genius programmer who’d transferred to an office nearby after a nearly-armed conflict with some of his prior coworkers. He’d been shunted off to this backwater town and relegated to working remotely four out of five days per week. “I don’t know many of the details; I’ve picked this up mainly from gossip at the bar,” D admitted. “He looks up to my boy, but he would never admit it, and he has no sense of propriety.” D related the story of how Jarahn had conned D’s boy into thinking he needed to brat on purpose, and to be honest, it gave Jackson a bit of a laugh: he studied the photo of this vaguely-creepy looking kid and imagined him with a mischievous smirk as he convinced D’s scrupulous boy to be naughty against his better angels.

Jackson already wanted to mark up Jarahn’s pasty skin with hand-shaped bruises.

Jackson gave D permission to give Jarahn his number, and a few days later, Jackson received the following text message:

**_Unknown: Hey Daddy, looking for some fun?_ **

****

* * *

Jarahn hated Wade Padilla, but he’d never thought Wade presented much of a threat. He was naïve; he was shy; hell, his Daddy was going to get bored of him soon enough given how passive and yielding he was. Jarahn had considered saying nothing—why not just let the bitch crash and burn and then swoop in to steal the hot bartender from the ashy remains?

But the adorable, dark-skinned boy with the bugged-out eyes had roused some small shred of compassion that Jarahn had been saving from childhood for the right moment, (and the bartender wasn’t that hot anyway… and seemed a little too forbearing for Jarahn’s tastes), so Jarahn had sat down with Wade instead and given him a step-by-step, foolproof guide for keeping Daddy Bartender sated and pleased.

And how had Wade repaid him for his kindness? By spreading rumors about him and turning everyone in the bar against him. So yeah—fuck Wade Padilla.

And fuck Frau Lick more generally. There weren’t any Daddies here except for the engaged one and the one who thought Wade was a good lay, and now that everyone thought he was a prick, Jarahn didn’t even have any of the other bottom-type folks to talk to. He got the side-eye now when he tried to sit with them; it felt like Mean Girls all over again, except that these people were adults and supposedly ‘mature.’ He’d finally gotten Maggie to tell him what was going on:

“Er, uh. Everyone knows you kind of interfered in Dennie and Wade’s relationship,” she said, averting her eyes and staring at the ceiling, whistling a jaunty little tune.

“What!? I never did that!” Jarahn exclaimed back. “What are you talking about?”

“You, er, sort of did?” Maggie responded with a shrug. “At the picnic. You put some crazy thoughts in Wade’s head, telling him he should be disobeying on a schedule or whatever it was you said.”

Jarahn thoroughly resented that interpretation of the events. “I said no such thing,” he responded haughtily. (He didn’t really remember exactly what he’d said, but surely he hadn’t said that.) “I gave him a friendly suggestion,” though Jarahn couldn’t remember what the suggestion was, exactly, “and he took it to the extreme!”

“Be that as it may, the people here love Wade and Dennie. So that’s why they’re a bit miffed with you.”

‘Bit miffed.’ Right. Everyone at Frau Lick hated him now, and it was all Wade’s fault. It wasn’t fair! Wade was already securely attached, but Jarahn didn’t have anywhere else to go to find someone but this horrible, ridiculous bar! The next-nearest club was out of the county, and talk about trying to explain that…

“On a different topic,” Maggie said, pulling something out of her pocket, “I’ve got something for you.” She handed him a small piece of paper with the word ‘Jackson’ and a phone number written on it. “This is the number for a Daddy who doesn’t come to Frau Lick that much, but I, uh. Thought you might could give him a call.”

Jarahn was a bit confused by the gesture. It seemed kind (and he was touched that Maggie wanted to be kind to him right now), but Maggie also looked like she was hiding something. “Oh, um. Thanks, I guess. What’s he look like?”

“Um, I think he was tall, black, kinda mean and angry…”

Jarahn furrowed his eyebrows. “Exactly how well do you know this guy?”

Maggie shrugged.

“And why are you giving me his number?”

“Oh fine!” Maggie threw up her hands as if Jarahn had brutally tortured her to extract this information. “He’s Dennie’s friend. I’ve only met him once. Dennie thinks he might be good for you. But, er… Dennie didn’t think you’d necessarily want…” She trailed off with evident embarrassment.

Jarahn’s mouth screwed up into a scowl. “He’s damn right. I don’t want anything to do with that stupid bartender or his stupid friends.”

“Oh, Jarahn,” Maggie said sadly. “I’m sorry that you and Wade are having drama. But Dennie is a good guy and he’s trying to look out for you. And I can’t imagine him being friends with someone who isn’t just as kind and patient as he is.”

“You just said this guy was mean and angry-looking!”

“I’m sure it’s just on the surface.” Maggie shrugged like that answered everything.

When Jarahn got home that night, he threw the stupid phone number onto the stupid counter and banged his stupid head against the stupid wall. The last thing he wanted was a Daddy like Dennis Henderson. That man was a total pushover with an awful taste in boys who spent more time making googly eyes at Wade than making drinks like he was supposed to. Daddies were supposed to be powerful and stern, not besotted and lenient.

But Jarahn still ended up texting this ‘Jackson’ character in the end, because it was Friday night and he had no one else to talk to.

**_Me: Hey Daddy, looking for some fun?_ **

**_Jackson: Is this Jarahn?_ **

**_Me: Sure is, hottie._ **

Alright, maybe that was playing it a little too strong. He didn’t _technically_ know what Jackson looked like yet. But tall, black, and mean sounded like a pretty sexy combination to him.

**_Jackson: I’ll expect you at 7:00pm tomorrow evening at Frau Lick._ **

Jarahn took it all back. Who the fuck did this guy think he was?!

**_Me: Busy tomorrow night. Let’s say Sunday._ **

**_Jackson: You’ll be there tomorrow, and you won’t be late._ **

Jarahn was both horribly offended by this man’s presumptuousness and strangely turned on as well. He wouldn’t be able to tell Jackson from Adam on the street, and yet he already thought he’d likely drop to his knees for him on their first date. _Even though he’s kind of a jerk._ Jarahn guessed he just liked jerks. Jarahn waited a few minutes for plausibility before texting back:

**_Me: I just told you I was busy tomorrow. But luckily for you, my engagement was just cancelled. So I happen to now be free. Don’t go thinking it’s because you said so or anything._ **

**_Jackson: Whatever you say, little boy._ **

And that was all he wrote. It was the shortest text message exchange Jarahn had ever had with a prospective date, and Jackson was possibly the rudest man he’d ever talked to, but Jarahn felt mysteriously thrilled by the whole thing. He read Jackson’s four messages over and over again that night in between sautéing onions and catching up on his news podcasts and throwing together a jar of overnight oats for the morning.

 _You’ll be there tomorrow, and you won’t be late._ Jarahn tried to imagine Daddy Henderson saying anything so authoritarian to Wade. Nah; unlikely.

***

Maggie’s description of Jackson had been fairly accurate. Jarahn was no slouch at 5’11”, but Jackson probably towered over him by at least five inches. His skin was dark—a few shades darker than both Wade’s and Harry’s—and his head was completely shaved. He looked to be in his forties, and a permanent scowl seemed to be etched on his face. Jarahn strolled into Frau Lick at 7:07pm (he had to set some reasonable expectations, after all) and meandered up to the bar where Jackson was sipping on a beer.

“Hey, handsome,” Jarahn said, sliding a hand down the man’s thick biceps.

Jackson didn’t hesitate: he spun around in his seat and trapped Jarahn’s wrist in a strong hand, and he squeezed, hard. Jarahn gasped—that kind of hurt!

“You’re late.”

What Maggie had neglected to describe was his _voice_ : deep and powerful, it sent jolts of fear and longing through each corner of Jarahn’s body and even burrowed down further, scraping the edges of his hardened heart and begging for entry. “Barely a couple minutes,” Jarahn said back, but a bit more shakily than he intended.

“You must be cruisin’ for a bruisin’, little boy.”

Jarahn tried to snatch his hand indignantly out of Jackson’s grasp, but unfortunately Jackson was too strong, so his escape attempt was more an inept wiggle. “It’s against policy to play on the ground floor,” Jarahn said back in the most prim voice he could manage, trying to pretend that he wasn’t horribly unsettled by his predicament.

“I wouldn’t be playing.” Without further chitchat, Jackson bodily pulled Jarahn onto the barstool next to him, which was a bit demoralizing. He then brushed off some imaginary dust from Jarahn’s shoulders and straightened Jarahn’s collar—hellishly patronizing, but also weirdly… nice?

Jarahn waved over the awful, stupid bartender, and asked, in the most confident voice he could muster, for a gin and tonic: “One extra ice cube and two—only two, not three, not four!—squeezes of lemon.”

Henderson seemed mildly annoyed, but he began making Jarahn’s drink. Except Jackson cut in. “Scratch that, D. We’re not drinking tonight. Just two sparkling waters.”

Jarahn’s mouth gaped at this man’s audacity! “Hey, buster, what gives you the right to—”

But before Jarahn could explain just what Jackson did not have the right to do, Jackson grabbed the shell of Jarahn’s ear and _pulled, hard!_ “You’ll call me sir, or you’ll call me Daddy. Got it?”

Jackson’s no-nonsense command soothed some of Jarahn’s raging emotions. (Jarahn pointedly didn’t think about the fact that Jackson had caused the crazed feelings in the first place.) “Yes, sir,” Jarahn mumbled back, a little more humbly. “But just so you know,” he couldn’t help adding, “I don’t like sparkling water.”

“A gin and tonic is made with sparkling water,” was Jackson’s totally unreasonable response.

“No,” Jarahn fought back. “Tonic water and sparkling water might both be _carbonated_ , but tonic water is made with quinine. That means—”

Jackson raised an imperious eyebrow. Oh boy. He really did look mean. “The proper response, little boy, is ‘thank you, sir, for ordering me a drink.’”

“You just don’t like being told you’re wrong,” Jarahn griped.

Jackson didn’t deny it. “I’m waiting.”

Jarahn held out for about thirty seconds of excruciating silence. “T-thank you, sir, for ordering me a drink,” he finally gritted out when he could bear it no longer.

“You’re welcome, boy.”

Jackson’s attitude was so condescending, and it probably should have turned Jarahn off a lot more than it did… but oh well… Jarahn turned sideways on his stool and leaned one elbow on the bar so he could lay the side of his head on his palm. “So, you come here often?”

Jackson turned his body towards Jarahn enough to indicate he was conversing with him. “Not much.”

Jarahn waited. And waited a little more. But that was all he said. “Uh. Right,” Jarahn finally responded into the silent ether. “What, um, do you do for work?”

“This and that.”

Good lord. It was like pulling teeth! “What’s this, and what’s that?” Jarahn snapped back.

“Handyman, mostly. Electrics, painting, fixing things.”

“Oh.” So Jackson was the kind of man Jarahn might hire if something went haywire in his apartment. “Do you like it?”

“It’s a job. I get paid well. Some flexibility over my hours.” Jackson was quiet for a second, and then he asked, “You’re a programmer?”

“Yup,” Jarahn responded. He was tempted to be short and sweet just like Jackson as payback, but he was a talker and he was super nervous, so that wasn’t really possible. “I lived in New York before, but then my company transferred me here. I work remotely most of the time, but I go in one day of the week. I kind of hate working remotely, but what can you do. At least I get to spend most of the day with my cat. Her name is Annabelle. Well it was Holly when I got her from the shelter, but she’s really not a Holly.” Jarahn was luckily prevented from continuing his rambling by the return of the bartender bearing sparkling waters. Jarahn sucked voraciously through the straw, trying to calm his racing heart. He really didn’t know what he was supposed to say to this man, so it was all coming out in a jumble.

“What’s she look like?” Jackson’s question sounded a bit stilted, as if he’d had to think about it and arrange the words in his head in the right order before verbalizing it.

“Oh my god, she’s the cutest cat in the world. Orange all over, except for two perfect white socks on her front paws. I love orange cats, don’t you? Although they’re sort of the golden retrievers of cats, don’t you think? Everyone loves them even when they don’t deserve it. But Annabelle deserves it. Anyways, do you have pets? You look like you’d have a dog.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jarahn’s mouth opened and closed like a blubbing fish, but he couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound horribly stupid or offensive. “Um, uh…”

Jackson laid a large, calloused palm on Jarahn’s shoulder and, in a perfect monotone, said, “I was kidding.”

“You’re pretty mean,” Jarahn groused back. But he didn’t try to dislodge Jackson’s warm hand. That at least felt pretty nice.

“That’s, ‘You’re pretty mean, _sir._ ’ And no, I don’t have any pets. I grew up with dogs though. They’re fine.”

Jarahn painstakingly kept the conversation going through two more rounds of sparkling waters. Jackson was a man of few words, but he seemed to be an alright listener. He at least never acted like Jarahn’s nervous babbling was dull, even though Jarahn knew he must be boring his ears off. And thankfully he didn’t make any more mean jokes.

Jarahn was trying to figure out a way to casually invite Jackson back to his place (it was almost a guarantee that this man fucked better than he talked) when his archnemesis walked in and sat on the opposite end of the bar. Of fucking course Wade would come here tonight of all nights. Oh, and of fucking course Henderson had put that godawful lovey-dovey placard on Wade’s stool. And _of fucking course_ Henderson would kiss Wade in that gentle, nauseating way that he always did. Couldn’t they get a room already? This was getting disgusting.

Jarahn’s adverse reaction to Wade’s presence did not go unnoticed. “What’s your beef with that kid?” Jackson asked.

“He’s a total asshole. He ruined my life.” Okay, maybe that was dramatic. But Jackson didn’t have to know that.

“I wouldn’t say he ruined your life.”

Jarahn flipped his gaze back to Jackson suspiciously. “Did Daddy Bartender tell you what happened? Because I guarantee you, his side of the story is biased.”

If Jarahn had expected Jackson to look at all perturbed or concerned by that announcement, he didn’t. He grasped Jarahn’s two cheeks in one authoritative hand, squeezing Jarahn’s lips together in a kind-of-painful, kind-of-sexy way. “First, next time I hear you call another man ‘Daddy’ in front of me, I’ll whup your ass. Second, feel free to tell me your side of the story if you think D left something out.”

Rational thinking was floating away in Jackson’s bossy grip. “Um, uh,” Jarahn said, his voice a bit distorted by the funny shape of his mouth under Jackson’s fingers.

“Thought so.” Jackson let him go and took a sip of sparkling water like nothing had just happened.

Jarahn’s chin felt uncomfortably quivery. “Do you even like me?” The words spilled out without his volition.

Jackson’s dark eyes were intense as Jarahn watched him consider the question. “Why do you ask?” Jackson finally responded.

“You don’t seem like you’re having that much fun. And you think I’m being overdramatic about the Wade situation.”

“I didn’t say either of those things,” Jackson responded with a bit of warning in his tone.

Jarahn just shrugged. “I mean it’s like, whatever. We came here, we got a drink, we tried it, and it didn’t work out. It’s cool.”

Jackson sighed in an exasperated kind of way. “Boy. _Jarahn_. I’m not a particularly demonstrative man. But that doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.”

Jarahn had heard some variation of that about a thousand times before. “Really, it’s cool. I get it. Listen, I need to use the bathroom, so…” Before Jackson could arrest him with another one of his uncomfortably punitive grips (or worse, _not_ arrest him), Jarahn slid off his stool and powerwalked towards the restrooms.

He slammed open the door of the men’s bathroom, and it bounced off the wall behind it. Good. Jarahn hoped it fucking dented.

Somehow Jarahn had thought this night couldn’t get any worse, but turns out, it could! Staring at him from the sink, wet-handed and shocked, was the last fucking person Jarahn wanted to see.

“Hey, Jarahn, are you okay?”

Jarahn stalked up to Wade and pushed him, making Wade stumble back against the sink. “What the fuck do you want, you fucking bitch? Haven’t you fucked up enough things in my life for me?”

“What are you talking—”

Jarahn shoved him again. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you stupid cunt. You think you’re so high and mighty because you have a Daddy that dotes on your every whim? You think that gives you the right to spread rumors and bullshit about me, when all I ever did was try to be nice to you? You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Jarahn, please, I didn’t mean to—”

That was too much. That was too fucking much, and Jarahn saw red.

* * *

Jackson stared at the empty barstool for a little too long, a bit flabbergasted by what had just happened. He’d kind of thought he and Jarahn had been getting along. Of course, sometimes Jackson couldn’t properly judge boys’ reactions to his high-handedness. But he’d felt fairly certain that Jarahn was into it; he’d seemed a bit nervous, but as D had intimated, he’d also seemed like a boy who wanted and needed his Daddy’s no-nonsense attitude.

But in the span of about a split second, he’d completely shut down and started spewing some passive aggressive bullshit about Jackson not having a good time. Their discussion about Wade had been the trigger. Jackson lamented, as usual, that he wasn’t particularly good at being sensitive about these sorts of things. He hadn’t necessarily thought Jarahn was being overdramatic; it was just that the entire dispute seemed petty from the outset.

There wasn’t time to be hung up about this. Jarahn had responded so beautifully to rough handling, and Jackson, if he was being honest with himself, missed the touch of a tender, loving boy—it had been years since he’d taken anyone home, and far longer since he’d found someone whose natural inclinations so well complemented his brand of dominance; someone with whom he could actually contemplate some possible future. He’d have to find Jarahn and do his best to apologize. Well, maybe he wouldn’t be able to manage that, but he could at least distract Jarahn with something more pleasant.

All thoughts of pleasant things went out the door when he walked into the bathroom and saw Jarahn slap Wade across the face.

To be fair to Jarahn (though Jackson wasn’t feeling especially fair), he looked horrified as soon as he’d done it. “Oh God, Wade, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry—”

Wade shouldered past Jarahn, tears streaming down his face.

“Wait, Wade!”

“Wade. Go to Dennis, right now,” Jackson commanded, not feeling any particular shame about ordering around another man’s boy. Wade nodded tearfully and squeezed past Jackson out the bathroom door. Jackson took a furtive look at the stalls—they were empty—and then conspicuously flipped the lock on the main door to keep out any unwanted intruders.

“I don’t know what happened—he was just—and I was just—I’ve never—I’ve never hit someone in my life—” Jarahn was babbling. He was holding his reddened hand up in front of his face, absently staring at it as if he didn’t recognize it. He didn’t even seem to see that Jackson was in the room.

Jackson could well imagine how D would handle this situation if Jarahn were his boy. He’d go to him and hug him and stroke his back gently, making shushing noises and saying, ‘It’s okay, dear one. I’ve got you.’ Then D would wrap his arm around Jarahn’s shoulder and usher him out the backdoor to the parking lot, and they’d drive to D’s house, and D would sit Jarahn down on the couch and talk about what he’d done and why. Then D would choose a paddle very carefully to match the offense and hold the boy on his lap and caress his back and say, ‘I’m doing this because I love you’ or some such romantic bullshit.

But Jackson wasn’t D.

He grabbed Jarahn by the scruff of his collar and pushed him none-too-gently over the sink, jackknifing him at the waist. Jarahn made a confused sort of squeak, but Jackson ignored it, instead focusing on unzipping Jarahn’s pants and shoving them and his boxers down to his ankles.

Jackson took just the briefest second to admire Jarahn’s bare butt before he began to blister it with gusto. He didn’t lecture; it didn’t seem particularly necessary, given that it was abundantly obvious what Jarahn was in trouble for. Jarahn’s ass reddened stunningly quickly—as Jackson had hoped, his pale skin easily took marks, and in the span of just a few minutes, Jarahn was bruised.

But Jackson didn’t stop. On the one hand, he couldn’t believe that Jarahn had gone and _slapped!?_ another boy during the middle of their date. On the other hand, it made a certain sad amount of sense. An insecure, lonely boy, who’d come to the sudden (incorrect) conclusion that his date was going all wrong, who’d then walked right into the person who he thought had caused all his problems? Of course he’d felt the urge to lash out.

It would be on Jackson to make sure his boy thought twice before giving in to that impulse again.

By the time Jackson felt done, Jarahn’s butt was mottled and purpling, and Jarahn was gasping, clutching spastically around the porcelain edges of the sink. Jackson stood Jarahn back up and pulled up and buttoned his pants, taking no care at all to avoid them brushing Jarahn’s abused backside. Jarahn accepted the treatment pliantly as a ragdoll.

“Do you feel better, little boy?”

Jarahn lifted his glassy, unfocused gaze. He opened his mouth and some strangled sounds came out, but nothing like real words.

“Come with me,” Jackson ordered, wrapping his hand around Jarahn’s bicep to guide him. Jackson was uneasy when he observed that his fingers and thumb in fact touched despite being twined around what should have been the meatiest part of Jarahn’s arm. Jackson didn’t need to tug him hard to get him moving. Jarahn was docile as a lamb.

Jackson unlocked the bathroom and walked them down the short distance of the hallway back out to the bar area. As expected, Wade was sitting on his stool while D stood next to him, holding ice on Wade’s cheek and softly running his hands through Wade’s curls. When D caught sight of Jarahn, the righteous fury of a Daddy overtook his features. Jackson held up his hand in the universal sign for ‘stop’—he didn’t want D to even think about hurting Jackson’s boy in retaliation.

“Jarahn. Apologize,” Jackson commanded.

It took Jarahn a moment to speak. His voice was quaky and weak. “Wade… I’m sorry…”

Wade looked like he was about to say something in response, but D put his finger across Wade’s mouth. “We’ll discuss this another time,” D said with a cool edge to his voice.

“Fair enough. Come on, Jarahn. We’re leaving.”

Jarahn did not protest.

* * *

Where were they exactly? Who was holding his arm? Oh. It was Daddy. Daddy was mad at him right now. Maybe he wasn’t his Daddy anymore. Had he ever been? It was sort of hard for Boy to think.

It was cold outside. He wanted his blankie. It was light blue and had his favorite ninja turtle, Donatello, on it. It felt so soft against his skin. When things were sad he always cuddled it. He hoped Daddy would let him cuddle it.

But his blankie was at home. And Boy was here, wherever here was. Oh, there were cars. It was a parking lot. Maybe he’d driven here. Did he know how to drive?

Daddy let go of his arm. No. He couldn’t let that happen. Daddy was mad at him. Daddy might leave him here. He clutched Daddy’s hand with small fingers and looked up at him. “I’m sorry, Daddy, please don’t leave without me,” Boy whispered desperately. “I’ll be good. I won’t talk.”

“Little one,” Daddy said. His voice was deep and stern and made Boy shiver a little. Daddy put one of his huge hands on the top of Boy’s head. Boy reached up and grabbed it with both his hands. He brought Daddy’s hand down to his face and pressed his nose up against it. He would hold tight. That would work.

Suddenly Daddy wrapped both his arms around him! He was hugging Boy! Boy hugged back. He tucked both small hands underneath Daddy’s armpits and linked them together behind Daddy’s back. “I’m not going to leave you here, little one,” Daddy said softly into his hair.

Relief filled Boy. He began to cry. “But I was a bad boy,” Boy wept.

“You were. But it’s over. You’ve been punished and now you’re forgiven. Now we get to go home.”

“And you won’t leave me here?” What if Daddy had changed his mind?

“No.” Then Daddy pulled away from him—Boy was scared, but Daddy didn’t let go. He just held Boy’s hand (so tightly!) and began to walk through the parking lot. Boy got to come along! Daddy wasn’t leaving him! His hand was so warm. Boy’s hand fit perfectly inside it.

Daddy stopped beside a blue car. He opened the front door and made Boy sit down inside. It kind of hurt because of Daddy’s spanking, but Boy didn’t mind. And Daddy even put the seatbelt on for Boy! Daddy cared about him! “Thank you, Daddy!” Boy gushed.

Daddy looked a little funny. Kinda happy and sad at the same time. He ruffled Boy’s hair for a second before shutting the door, and then he got into the driver’s seat. “Daddy, you have to put your seatbelt on,” Boy said when Daddy put his keys in the hole.

“Very astute, little one.”

Boy didn’t know what ‘ass-toot’ meant, but it sounded like a good thing. Daddy clicked the seatbelt in place and then turned on the car. It roared. “Woah, loud!” Boy laughed. “I like your car, Daddy.”

Daddy looked over at him. “It’s called a Nissan Sentra,” Daddy explained.

“A knee-song?” Boy looked at his knees for a minute. They were quiet. “My knees aren’t singing tonight.”

“That’s alright, little one.”

Daddy turned on the knee-song’s lights and drove out of the parking lot. He turned onto a road. “It’s dark,” Boy said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty late.”

“Past my bedtime,” Boy agreed.

“Indeed.”

Boy was so happy, he began to hum the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song as quietly as he could. “Turtles in a half shell,” he whispered, bouncing his knees just a little. They _were_ singing!

Oh. But he’d said he’d be quiet. Boy put his hand over his own mouth. The music just wanted to come out. But Daddy was still mad. He couldn’t annoy Daddy, or Daddy might stop and leave him on the side of the road.

“Little one, why’d you stop singing?”

Boy shook his head. It was a trick.

Daddy reached his hand across the car and put it on Boy’s knee. Boy flinched, but Daddy just held it there. “You have a beautiful voice,” Daddy said.

Boy dropped his hand. “I do?”

“Yes, little one.”

“You won’t get mad? And leave me on the side of the road?”

“Never,” Daddy said, and he sounded pretty serious about that.

And Boy was so happy he started singing again. “Turtle power!” he giggled. “Who’s your favorite ninja turtle, Daddy? Mine’s Donatello. He’s really smart. He invents things!”

“He’s mine too,” Daddy agreed.

“Oh. I thought you might like Leonardo better. Everyone listens to him because he’s in charge.”

“Little one, I have a confession. I’ve never seen the ninja turtles.”

Boy gasped. “What? Never? Daddy, can we watch it tonight?”

“It’s past your bedtime, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Well then, tomorrow,” Boy decided.

“Anything you want.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Boy added politely. “You’re not still mad, are you?” he asked, worried again.

“No. I told you, you’re forgiven.”

Boy smiled. He was happy again.

***

Jarahn woke up with a raging headache and no idea where he was. Sunlight streamed in from a window somewhere off to his right. He was lying on his back on a spongy mattress with a thin white sheet draped over him. And someone’s arm was stretched right across his chest. A huge, solid, black arm.

Everything from the night before flooded back in. His date with Jackson; Jarahn storming off; Jarahn _slapping_ Wade. Oh Jesus. He’d slapped Wade. And then Jackson had fucking laid into his ass so hard that Jarahn went and regressed and spent the whole night talking about fucking ninja turtles.

Candidate for most embarrassing morning after of his life?

Jarahn tried to get out of the bed quietly, hoping he could escape without having to face Jackson. But it was to no avail. Jarahn tried to wriggle out, but Jackson’s arm was curled too snugly around him for him to move. Christ, did this man have a metal arm or something?

His squirming unfortunately woke Jackson up. Jackson let Jarahn go and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Jarahn sat up too and watched him warily. Then the silence promptly became too awkward and Jarahn had to fill it up. “Uh, good morning, Jackson, uh, that is, last night, you see, I didn’t mean to hit Wade, it was an accident, and then all that other stuff. Ugh. I’m just saying. Anyways, sorry about all this. If I could just find my phone, I’ll call a taxi—”

“Stop. You’re eating breakfast here with me.”

Jarahn calmed a little as Jackson’s stern command washed over him. “I can get a taxi,” he tried to offer again.

“No.”

Alright then.

Jackson stood up and stretched long, chiseled limbs above his head. His chest was bare, and a pair of flannel pajama pants sagged dangerously low on his hips. Without ceremony, Jackson came around to Jarahn’s side of the bed and pulled him to his feet by his wrist. Jarahn squeaked at the sudden force. He was gratified to see that he was still wearing the same collared shirt and tight black jeans that he’d worn to the bar last night, but Jackson had apparently removed his socks and shoes. That was a little weird, wasn’t it? (Or was it kind of sweet?)

Then Jackson used Jarahn’s arm like a leash to drag him out of the bedroom. “Hey,” Jarahn tried to protest. “I can walk by myself.”

“Don’t care.” Jackson pushed open a creaky wooden door in the hallway and hauled Jarahn into a cramped bathroom that was tiled floor to ceiling with tiny blue and yellow squares. Jackson freed Jarahn’s wrist, but it was a false freedom because Jackson’s bulk cut Jarahn off from the door. Jackson rooted through the shabby wooden cupboard beneath the sink ( _Christ, this man needs an interior decorator_ ) and emerged with a washcloth and a packaged toothbrush. Jarahn tried to snag the toothbrush but Jackson didn’t give it to him—he opened it himself, doused the head with strongly-scented mint toothpaste, rinsed the bristles under the tap, and then _stuck the head inside Jarahn’s mouth and started brushing!?_

Jarahn gurgled and tried to expel the intrusion, but Jackson didn’t permit it. He pressed his front against Jarahn’s back and flattened him up against the sink to hamstring his resistance. Then he stabilized Jarahn’s head with his left hand in Jarahn’s hair and rudely scrubbed the brush across Jarahn’s teeth with his right. Jarahn tried to swivel his head, but Jackson’s grip on his scalp was too tight.

“Boy, if you keep fighting me, your ass will regret it.”

The path of least resistance would have been to stop fighting, of course, but Jarahn never much liked the path of least resistance. He spat angrily, which dislodged the toothbrush long enough to give Jarahn a chance to clamp his lips shut tight.

Before he had the chance to congratulate himself for his successful defiance, Jackson stepped back just far enough to really wind up his arm. Then he spanked Jarahn’s butt _hard_ , which reignited every inch of fire from the night before. Then, instead of showing mercy, Jackson hit him _again_ , and then _one more time_! Three solid, savage slaps that knocked Jarahn off balance and enjoined him to scrabble for purchase on the sink.

“Open your mouth.”

Jarahn opened his mouth.

Jackson made efficient work of his teeth and tongue. Then Jackson ran warm water over the washcloth and squirted some face soap on it and ran it gently over Jarahn’s face. It felt pleasant. After rinsing the excess soap from his face, Jackson filled up the bathroom cup with tap water and handed Jarahn an ibuprofen that he’d produced out of nowhere. “For your headache.”

Had he mentioned to Jackson that he had headache…?

A little more lax and susceptible after being so thoroughly spanked and sanitized, Jarahn permitted Jackson to lead him from the bathroom through a small, squat house and into a narrow kitchen. There was no dining room—just a slim table pushed up against the kitchen window with two chairs, one that faced the window and one kitty-corner to that that provided a view of the entire kitchen. Jackson pointed to that latter chair, and Jarahn meekly sat.

Without a word, Jackson started pulling pots and pans out of cupboards, and he opened the fridge and extracted a carton of supermarket eggs. “Oh, I can help,” Jarahn said, moving to stand back up and join the labor effort. Jackson didn’t verbally respond—instead, he grabbed a nearly-finished roll of paper towels off the stand and whapped Jarahn on the nose with it, shocking him back onto his butt.

“You know, caveman, you could use your words,” Jarahn grumbled, rubbing his poor, abused nose with some dramatics.

“I liked my way better.”

Of course he had. Jarahn settled into his new prison, pulling one leg over the other and resting his arms on the table. In comparison to his tiny kitchen, Jackson loomed large as he deftly whisked eggs and mixed pancake batter and laid bacon strips on parchment paper.

“You didn’t even ask if I eat meat,” Jarahn commented to fill the silence.

Jackson turned around and tilted his head thoughtfully. “You do,” he finally concluded, before turning back to his preparations.

Goddamn this man! He was right, of course. Whether he’d had any basis for his assumption or if he’d just taken a wild guess, Jarahn would probably never know.

Jarahn thought about what other things he might be able to say. He wanted to keep apologizing about last night, but he also didn’t exactly want to remind Jackson about all that had happened. He could talk about Annabelle, but then Jarahn would be forced to admit that he’d have to go home to feed her at some point, and he didn’t really want to leave (although he really should, given that this man was a Grade-A jerk). Hm. He could talk about work. But he hated talking about work.

He laid his head on his arms, watched Jackson cook, and let the quiet overwhelm him. It wasn’t exactly an awkward silence, but it was big, and it took up all the air in the room. Jackson just took up so much _space_. Physically, of course, but he also had an aura—a cocky, easy, competent confidence that made Jarahn feel a little trembly. But it was okay, somehow. The silence was just an extension of Jackson’s overpowering presence, and it gave Jarahn strange, inexplicably fluttery feelings.

 _He’s strong enough to take you down a peg_. _And it feels nice to be taken down._

Before long, Jackson plated up several pancakes, a huge serving of scrambled eggs, and at least eight slices of bacon onto a single plate. Jarahn thought at first that Jackson must just need like 8,000 calories a day to survive, but then when Jackson brought the lone plate over to the table and set it down between them, a hot, irritated suspicion overcame him. There was only one fork. Before he could protest, Jackson scooped a hearty bite of eggs onto the fork and aimed it at Jarahn’s mouth expectantly.

“Open up, little boy.”

Jarahn turned his head away rapidly. “I’m not a kid!” he yelled. (Well, it was more like a yelp.) “Just because I was a fucking weirdo last night doesn’t mean…”

Jackson used his free hand to turn Jarahn’s face back forward—the hand warmed Jarahn’s cheek. “That’s not what I think.” But Jarahn kept his mouth stubbornly shut, even when Jackson pushed the fork up against it.

Jackson sighed, and added, “This is what makes me feel secure.”

Jarahn’s eyes widened at the unexpected revelation. “What do you—”

Jackson took full advantage of the opportunity. Jarahn spluttered as the food was imperiously shoved in, but he chewed as fast as he could and swallowed quickly so that he could finish asking his question. “What do you mean, it makes you feel secure?”

Jackson took his own bite of eggs before commanding Jarahn to open back up; this time, the fork bore a fluffy square of pancake drizzled in Canadian maple syrup.

“C’mon, answer the—”

Jackson snuck the morsel of food past Jarahn’s uncooperative lips. He was undefeatable! And also, goddamn it; these pancakes were really good. Jarahn had just watched Jackson whip these up from scratch—flour and milk and baking soda and all the works. How could a man who was such a macho jerk know how to cook like this…?

Jackson finally relented to Jarahn’s curiosity. “I like to know my boy has everything he needs.”

Jarahn willingly opened his mouth for the next bite as he pondered that response. “But it would be the same if I fed myself and you watched,” he reasoned once he’d swallowed and thought it through.

“Let me put it this way: I like ensuring it by my own hand. Open up.”

Jarahn accepted some bacon, and noticed it was baked exactly how he liked it: crunchy and almost-burnt.

“And I like it when my boy does what he’s told,” Jackson added, a hint of arousal glimmering in his eyes.

“I think you just like spanking him when he doesn’t,” Jarahn groused back.

“That too.”

It was easier to accept the force-feeding after that. The mild indignity of the whole thing faded; this was just Jackson’s rough, bizarre version of care. Though, did Jackson actually care about him? They barely knew each other, but all the signs were pointing to ‘yes’… maybe Jackson had forgotten about Jarahn’s obsession with ninja turtles after all. Or perhaps Jarahn had hallucinated the whole thing last night. Yeah, that must be it. Jackson had spanked him so hard he’d passed out and dreamed it. That was the only sensible explanation.

They finished eating (Jarahn was not used to eating quite so much!), and Jackson continued restricting Jarahn to the kitchen chair while he cleaned up. Jarahn had whined a little about being more than capable of pulling his weight and cleaning up after someone cooked for him, but Jackson had just leveled him with one of his trenchant stares and said: “Stop arguing.”

Then Jackson finished and sat back down, and he was silent, and Jarahn began to fidget under his scrutiny. Doubts came rushing back in. He needed to fill the silence.

“Um, so… should I get that taxi now, or what?”

* * *

Jackson wasn’t D, but sometimes he wished he were. D was good at this part of being a Daddy: the comforting, the reassuring, the soothing. Instead of doing any of those things, Jackson grabbed the paper towel roll and bopped Jarahn on the nose again (which made him squeak somewhat prettily). “Stop talking about the taxi.”

“Stop hitting me in the nose!”

Jarahn thwacked him a third time and received for his efforts an indignant little squawk. “Why? It’s fun.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Jarahn grumbled. A sweet blush suffused his cheeks. There was a hint of breathless excitement in his tone.

“You like that, though,” Jackson stated.

“Are you a psychologist now, in addition to being a this and that handyman?”

Like a puma stalking his prey, Jackson leaned into Jarahn’s space and squeezed his cheeks between his thumb and two forefingers. “You like being handled like this.”

“What, dragged helter-skelter around some unknown house while a caveman sticks things in and around my mouth without asking?”

Well, yeah. “Do you deny it, little one?”

Jackson could see the conflict on Jarahn’s face plain as day. This little kitten sure didn’t like giving in, did he? “That’s—it’s—”

Jackson compressed his fingers; it must have been edging into the painful territory. “I’d like to keep you. Is that what you need to hear to stop talking about a jailbreak?”

Jarahn’s eyes became huge and shiny. Jackson noticed for the first time that his blue irises were flecked with bits of green and gold. “You don’t really know me,” Jarahn countered. “All you know is that I’m some weird kid with a temper who slapped your friend’s boy. How can you say you want to keep me?”

“I know a lot more than that,” Jackson countered. “I know that you’re a lonely, insecure little boy who pretends to know everything to hide the fact that you’re all alone and nothing makes sense. I know that a rough touch calms you down and that you don’t mind being pushed around like an action figure because you secretly crave the attention and care. I know you have a flair for the dramatic that lives right alongside the Little in you that’s begging not to be left behind.”

Jarahn tried to wrench his face away from Jackson’s harsh honesty, but Jackson didn’t let him go. His fingers stippled red impressions into Jarahn’s cheeks.

“I know that you’re witty, and smart, too. A whiz-kid programmer—and a boy with a passion for invention. I know you like to talk, but even more than that, you love to sing. And I know you have a beautiful voice to match.”

A fragility overcame Jarahn’s expression; some of his fight faded. “But you don’t know how bad I am inside; all the bad things I’ve done. Wouldn’t it be better if we just parted amicably now, rather than going through the whole dog and pony show? We both know what the outcome is here. You’ll try; I’ll fail.”

“I don’t accept that outcome.”

“You can’t just manhandle everything to be what you want it to be, you know! I can’t become some ideal boy just because you say so. I’m a lunatic. I’ve got significant deficiencies in the impulse control arena. I’m useless for making or keeping friends, apparently. I have… a past. And on top of all that, there’s some weird mental issue that turns me into a simpering toddler whenever I get hit too good.

“Though, assuming you could ever get past all the other stuff, I do actually have a solution for the age regression,” Jarahn added abruptly. Jackson frowned; he wasn’t so sure that being a Little was something that required a ‘solution.’ “It’s the time-honored tradition for curing a bad attitude.” Jarahn mimed slapping himself in the face; his hand brushed Jackson’s forefingers in the process. “Yeah, just pull a Jarahn and crack me a good one right there. Yelling works too sometimes.”

Jackson squeezed Jarahn’s cheeks in warning. “That is unacceptable.”

“Well fine! Whatever! I was just trying to suggest a possible solution so that this thing could maybe work out between us! It’s not like I can control my stupid toddler brain. So just send me home already. This is pointless.”

“You don’t need to control it!” The volume of Jackson’s voice increased slightly.

“Of course I need to control it!” Jarahn scornfully retorted. “Does a big old tough guy like you get his rocks off watching his partner cuddling his fluffy little turtle blanket? Is it normal, _sir_ , for a fully grown adult male, i.e., _me!_ , to watch kids’ cartoons and not know how to put on a fucking seatbelt?”

Jackson released Jarahn’s cheek—but only long enough to find the paper towel roll and chuff him on the nose, just once more. “Let me talk now.” Jackson pulled the other kitchen chair in front of Jarahn so that they could sit face to face, and he planted his hands firmly on Jarahn’s thighs. Jackson took a deep breath as he tried to figure out how to say what he knew needed to be said. Damnit, where was D when you needed him? “Jarahn. Last night, when you regressed, that was… Christ. You’re right. A ‘big old tough guy’ like me—a rough, stubborn man who’s used to getting his way with a mean look—doesn’t usually inspire a lot of confidence and trust in a boy, especially not a vulnerable one. I’ve never dated a Little; I’ve barely even talked to one. But without even skipping a beat, you looked up at me with those big blues of yours and you called me Daddy and you trusted me to keep you safe. Christ. I was so honored, little one. It was a privilege I never expected to get or even realized I wanted.”

Jarahn looked meekly up at Jackson through his long eyelashes. “You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have the patience to put up with a stupid little brat,” he mumbled.

“Maybe not,” Jackson conceded. He raised his hand to Jarahn’s cheek and caressed it, forcefully enough to push Jarahn’s head back and forth a smidgen. “But a bright, musical, inquisitive Little boy? I could muster up a little patience for him.”

Jarahn laughed a little wetly. “But I was serious that I can’t control when I turn into Boy,” he said. “It just… happens.”

“When?”

“When I’m… ugh. Subdued. By another person, I mean. When someone subdues me. My mind fools me into thinking I’m safe, I guess, when I’m completely subjugated. It’s sort of a fucked up paradox, actually,” he chuckled hollowly. “All the Daddies who like Littles are too gentle to get me to that headspace. But the Daddies who want to rough me up a bit aren’t really the types who’re interested in dealing with me once I’m there.”

“It’s true that I’m not a gentle Daddy,” Jackson gruffly acknowledged. “And I can’t say I have any experience with caregiving for a Little. Most boys, Littles or otherwise, run for the hills when I walk into the room.” That startled a laugh out of Jarahn. “But if Boy doesn’t mind having a mean Daddy like me, then I don’t mind being Boy’s mean Daddy either.”

“You were actually pretty gentle with Boy,” Jarahn countered softly. “Far more than he deserved. After… after…”

Jackson captured Jarahn’s chin again and forced eye contact. “You were punished for what you did, little one.”

“But I hurt Wade. I don’t think he’ll forgive me. He shouldn’t.”

Jackson sighed. It was hard to know what to say; Jackson wasn’t in charge of Wade’s feelings. Maybe Wade wouldn’t forgive him. Maybe D wouldn’t let Wade talk to Jarahn ever again. There wasn’t really anything reassuring to add here. Jackson slid his hand from Jarahn’s chin back to his cheek and rested it there. The contrast between their skin colors was harsh under the fluorescent kitchen light.

His silent affection seemed to be enough for Jarahn, though. “It’s… can I have my phone so I can text him? Please?” Jarahn asked. Jackson nodded and took Jarahn to the living room (not much bigger than a large walk-in closet, really) and pushed Jarahn down onto the couch before grabbing his phone from Jarahn’s bag, which he’d placed on the wall hook last night after Boy had declared, with perfect guilelessness, that Jackson’s dumpy little house was ‘bigger than the President’s!’

Jackson tossed Jarahn his phone before sitting down on the squashy chair in the corner to give Jarahn some space to collect his thoughts. Jarahn’s fingers instantly began to fly over the screen with the deftness of a man who was a member of a generation far more comfortable with smartphones than Jackson would ever be. His kitten looked up once and caught Jackson’s eye. And before looking back down at his phone, he smiled—a bright, dazzling thing that highlighted his healthy pearls.

After a few more minutes of frenzied hand movement, Jarahn finally murmured, “He wants to get coffee with me this afternoon. Is that… is that alright?”

Jackson moved from the armchair to Jarahn’s side, squishing him up against the arm of the couch just a bit with his bulk. “You aren’t going alone,” Jackson announced imperially. Flashes of Wade taking revenge… or letting D take revenge on his behalf… no. That wouldn’t be happening on Jackson’s watch. 

“Why the fuck not?!”

Oh, dear kitten. His fight never really went away, did it? It just ebbed and flowed, always ready and wiggling to reawaken with each new battle. How it thrilled Jackson; how he looked forward to putting Jarahn in his place, every single time. Jackson shackled Jarahn’s slim, pale neck with a large hand and squeezed; not hard, but enough to threaten something worse if he kept talking back. “Because I said so.”

“You realize that researchers have denounced the use of ‘because I said so’ as a parenting tool because—”

Jackson squeezed a little harder. His little kitten was always ready to drop some knowledge. “I’m not your parent. And you won’t question me. Got it, little boy?”

A flash of uncertainty; and then Jarahn relaxed in his hold, sinking into the couch. Not subdued enough to regress into Boy, apparently, but Jarahn appeared noticeably calmer. “Alright, Daddy,” he yielded quietly.

“Good boy,” Jackson replied. And using his grip on Jarahn’s throat, he maneuvered Jarahn’s head close enough to cover his lips with his own—their first kiss. Jarahn didn’t fight _this_ even for a second. “Ah, so this is the way to get you to be obedient,” Jackson murmured into Jarahn’s mouth, licking into it with his tongue and tracing all the soft curves of flesh and sharp edges of teeth. “I just have to fuck you into submission.”

Jarahn didn’t deny it.

* * *

Jarahn had to admit that, no matter how childish it felt to be chaperoned by Jackson to the coffee shop, it made him feel a little better that Wade’s Daddy hadn’t let him come to this meeting alone either. Henderson was sitting across the room with a cold coffee and an even colder look on his face. Jarahn suspected that even if Wade forgave him, the bartender never would.

Jackson—who had taken Jarahn home first to feed Annabelle and change his clothes—went to sit with Henderson as Jarahn crossed the café to the little table Wade had saved for them. Wade was sipping on a hot latte. An iced Americano, with just a splash of half-and-half, was resting on the table in front of the empty seat. That was Jarahn’s favorite drink.

“Hi, Wade,” Jarahn mumbled, shuffling into the empty chair. “You didn’t have to get me this. I can pay you back.”

Wade smiled in that shy way of his. “Don’t worry about it. I wanted to.”

It only seemed to highlight how shitty of a person Jarahn was in comparison. “Wade, I’m so sorry for hitting you,” Jarahn stammered, not able to manage small talk. “I lost my temper. It was wrong.”

“It’s okay. Look, there’s not even a mark. It barely even hurt. I forgive you.”

That… was too easy. “How can you forgive me?” Jarahn asked suspiciously. “I slapped you.”

Wade shrugged, looking bashful. “I know. I was there,” he joked. “It was scary. And I don’t want you to do it again. But I still forgive you.”

“Believe me,” Jarahn said darkly, “if I give into that rotten impulse again, Jackson’s going to rip me an entirely new asshole. He’s made that much clear.”

Wade glanced over at the Daddies’ table and hummed. “Jackson’s probably strong enough to actually do that,” Wade agreed.

“But… Wade, like. Even if I didn’t have a caveman on my back, I wouldn’t hit you again. I do have an impulse control problem. And I’ve done some pretty stupid things, but I’ve never hit someone before. Now I know how awful it feels to hit someone that you…” Ugh, he couldn’t admit that.

But Wade heard it anyway. He reached over and covered Jarahn’s hand with his own. “I get it. It doesn’t feel good to hurt the people you care about.”

“Exactly,” Jarahn responded emphatically. “So I promise it won’t happen again. Jackson or no.”

“That’s why I’m sorry too, Jarahn.”

Jarahn cocked his head. “For… what?”

“For, you know. The whole. The… rumor.” Wade said the word in a whisper, like it was a particularly offensive swear word. “I know you probably won’t believe this. But I really didn’t know that it would make your life hard if I told people about what happened at the picnic. I, uh. Well, the thing is, I didn’t really have a group of friends in high school or college. And then I haven’t really had friends _at all_ since. I’ve never had ‘drama.’” Wade put air quotes around the word; he looked abashed. “I should have seen that that would be the result of telling people what you’d said to me.

“And,” Wade continued, “I didn’t understand at first, either, that you were just trying to be nice to me. Dennie helped me understand. You were trying to protect me; you wanted to make sure my Da- er, my Dennie didn’t hurt me.”

Jarahn crossed his arms and looked off the side, a little petulantly. “Yeah,” he admitted with a grimace. “It’s just like… I’ve had a lot of shitty Daddies, I guess. And it seems like no matter how I acted, they’d always get fed up with me. Too obedient; not obedient enough; too—” Jarahn cut himself off before revealing the age regression thing. He wasn’t ready to tell anyone else about that yet. “Well, you get the point.”

Wade nodded. “See, the thing is, Dennie is sort of a crazy hardass,” Wade said in a soft, embarrassed little voice. “So when he caught wind about me disobeying on purpose… well, let’s just say, my ass got handed to me.”

Jarahn raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. “There’s no way that guy’s a hardass. What did he do? Spank you on the bare?”

“Paddling, belting, and never-ending lines. And socializing. Ugh, that’s probably the worst part.”

“You got paddled _and_ belted?”

Wade laughed. “That’s what everyone says! Yes! I got paddled and belted! And it fucking hurt! My first Rule is always to do what Dennie says. And he wanted to make it very, very clear to me that I’m supposed to follow that Rule 100% of the time.”

That sounded kind of unsettling. “What do you mean, you have to obey him 100% of the time? Do you mean like, 24/7? What if he tells you to like, get up on the bar and give everyone a strip tease?”

Wade shook his head vehemently. “Dennie would never do that.”

Jarahn didn’t think Jackson would do that either.

“And anyways, if he told me to do something that didn’t feel right to me, I also have another Rule that requires me to safeword. I’ve never had to do that, though.”

Jarahn considered that for a moment. It seemed like every command he was given didn’t ‘feel right,’ at least in the sense that he had a deep-seated need to fight back whenever he was challenged. He tried to imagine what he’d do if he had a safeword with Jackson, or any other Daddy: it would be a formidable battle weapon. Jarahn would just say it at the first moment he could so he could _win_. And then his Daddy would stop, and then Jarahn would feel like a total ass and never get what he really needed, which was to be taken beyond the place of resistance. “I don’t know if it would work for me,” is all Jarahn said in response, “but I understand that your Daddy didn’t like my suggestion. So I’m sorry I butted in.”

“It’s my fault too. It’s against my Rules to listen to other people like that. I can’t obey others’ commands; and I can’t obey my own commands.”

“Uh… what do you mean by that?”

“Like, you know. When I decide myself what the best course of action is. I’m supposed to let Dennie decide that for me.”

“It seems like you have a lot of rules,” Jarahn remarked slowly.

“Only ten! I used to just have eight. Well, one of the Rules actually has an a) and a b), so I guess I have eleven.”

“Christ!” Jarahn laughed. “That sounds like Hell to me. Does he make you recite them and shit?”

“Do you want to see them?” Wade rubbed the back of his head, looking a little timid. “Sorry. I’ve never shown them to anyone. You must think this is weird.”

But Jarahn was far too curious to decline that offer, so Wade pulled his cell phone out of his messenger bag and connected to the café’s Wi-Fi. “It’s on Google Docs,” he explained. He handed the phone across the table for Jarahn’s perusal.

Holy shit. He’d had rules with Daddies before, but this was something else. Total obedience; total honesty; total openness about everything he was thinking and feeling. And Wade’s Rules were ridiculously detailed: it was like his Daddy had tried to account for every possible contingency! This just solidified, once and for all, that Jarahn would never have survived with Dennis Henderson as his Daddy.

Jarahn did laugh when he got to Rule 10 though. “It looks like you got a new Rule in my honor,” he observed slyly.

“Yeah. Dennie just wanted to make it abundantly clear that I shouldn’t be listening to you,” Wade remarked with a wink.

“To be fair, you probably should have figured that one out on your own,” Jarahn winked back in a self-deprecating fashion. He handed the phone back over and then, almost without his volition, he demanded, “Why do you like this?” Jarahn was suddenly overcome with the need to understand. “This document is crazy formal and detailed. Aren’t you thinking about the Rules like all the time and stressing about them?”

Wade shook his head with a childishly excited grin on his face. “No, see? That’s the thing! _Because_ I have them, I’m _not_ stressed all the time, like I would be if I didn’t have them!”

“I guess my brain is different. I’d really rather not have to remember all that stuff and just have my Daddy pop me a swat if he thinks I’m not being good.”

Wade frowned. “That would make me really anxious, to never be completely sure what might get me in trouble. But I guess that’s why you and I have different Daddies. Um, by the way, is Jackson… alright? Was he… you know… kind to you?”

Jarahn laughed a little at that. It was hard to believe that this time yesterday, he hadn’t even met the guy. It somehow felt like they’d known each other forever; there was an indescribable level of trust. “Hard to explain. Not really? But. I like it. It’s… well, it’s like what you just said about us having different Daddies. I guess all boys need different things. You need this formalized thing to guide your actions. I just need like, a strong man to make me do what he says by force.”

“Just, you know, if you’re ever in trouble, you can come to me. Anytime.”

Jarahn was touched at Wade’s compassion, which he scarcely deserved. “Thanks, Wade. It… I mean, I know it might not be something that interests you right now, but you know, if you ever… if you wanted to like… be friends, or something.” When Wade didn’t respond immediately, Jarahn immediately backtracked. “I mean, whatever. It’s cool. I get it, I mean, I’m pretty annoying. And I slapped you. So like, it’s cool.”

“No, no! I do want to be your friend. It’s just…” Jarahn was horrified to see tears welling up in Wade’s eyes; would Daddy Bartender kill him for making Wade cry? “I’m not so good at making friends, and I didn’t think you’d forgive me so easily for the… rumor.”

“Oh Wade,” Jarahn said with a little laugh. “I’ve had far worse things said about me. Believe me. And when I…slapped…you,” he added, more demurely, “it wasn’t really because of that. It was because of a lot of things all at once that just sort of culminated in that moment and I gave in to a vicious impulse. And I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that. I do hope we can be friends.”

Wade nodded vigorously. “Yes! Please! And I promise I’m going to make sure all the other Kids understand that this was all just a big misunderstanding and that we’re friends now.

“And um. There’s one more thing.” Wade squared his shoulders and took in a deep breath. “I’m following Dennie’s order to tell you this right now. I have a Rule that requires me to reflect on and keep track of my own personal limits. And. See, the thing is, one of them is… ugh. Well, one of them is not being slapped, actually. But I don’t think you’re gonna do that again. But I also…” Wade sucked in another breath. “I am required to inform you that it crossed one of my boundaries when you called me the bad words that you called me. Dennie says that I can have boundaries with my friends too. So, uh. I mean. If it’s okay with you… no, ugh. What I meant to say is, I am requesting that you never call me a ‘bitch’ or a ‘cunt’ ever again.”

Jarahn’s mouth gaped. He had been in such a haze of temper last night that he hadn’t even known that he said any of those awful things! “Shit, Wade. I’m really sorry I called you that. I promise I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you.” Wade breathed a sigh of relief. “Dennie was really adamant that I talk to you about that,” he admitted with a wary sort of glance at the Daddies’ table. Jarahn hid a giggle behind his hand.

They spent the next forty-five minutes chatting amiably about nothing in particular—making fun of some of the more uptight Frau Lick Doms, discussing the most recent season of Game of Thrones, sharing photos of cats (Jarahn showed Wade Annabelle; Wade showed Jarahn a cute cat he’d seen online that morning). Eventually, Jackson and Henderson must have gotten bored, because they approached the table with an aura of sternness about them that didn’t fail to make both Wade and Jarahn shiver.

“Dearest, we should probably head home so I can get ready for work,” Henderson said in the amorous tone he usually employed with Wade. Jarahn couldn’t believe this was the same man who’d viciously paddled and belted Wade for imperfect compliance with his ‘Rules’…

“Yes, sir!” Wade knocked back the last bit of his coffee and stood, allowing Henderson to drape a possessive arm around his shoulders. Jarahn stood too and glanced shiftily at Jackson before dropping his gaze. But apparently that had been enough to convey his neediness, because Jackson put his arm around him too. That felt nice.

“Listen up, Osborne. If you ever hurt my boy again, you’ll regret it,” Henderson said to him with undisguised hostility.

Jarahn tried to stammer out an intelligible response, but the words just got stuck, so he nodded meekly at the ground.

“He already does. And if you threaten _my_ boy again, you’ll be the one to regret it.”

Woah! Jarahn’s head snapped up and… holy shit. That was a very mean-looking scowl. Jarahn didn’t know if a Daddy had ever stood up for him quite so thoroughly before! Jackson and Henderson stared each other down for fifteen seconds or so before Henderson broke into laughter. “You’re right,” Henderson said. “I was out of line. Jarahn, you’re safe from me. You’ve got a good Daddy here. Not a nice one, but a good one.”

“I know,” Jarahn said, a bit proudly. “Jackson will take care of me.” And that announcement earned him one of Dennie’s kind grins.

After they’d parted with hugs and promises to see each other at the bar soon, Jackson took Jarahn back to his little house. Barely a split second after closing the front door, Jackson landed three solid slaps on the seat of Jarahn’s pants. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“You called me ‘Jackson.’ I told you to call me ‘sir’ or ‘Daddy.’”

“C’mon, we were in public,” Jarahn whined.

Jackson smacked him again, though with no real anger. “You’re being quite the defiant little brat,” he remarked thoughtfully.

Jarahn screwed up his nose and furrowed his brows. “You’re just looking for an excuse to spank me!”

Jackson shrugged, and snagged Jarahn by the bum and flattened their bodies together, front-to-front. “You like that, though.”

Goddamn this man. Jarahn did like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, first, thank you for reading the Jarahn/Jackson sidestory! This oneshot barely scratches the surface of Jarahn’s backstory, FYI; I’m envisioning future oneshots :) But more Wade and Dennie are on the docket next. (Also just as a warning, I am finishing a job and getting geared up to take a long trip in September and then start a new job, so my writing is likely to be more sporadic going forward!)
> 
> One quick note re: the fact that Jarahn so easily discounts the possibility of having a safeword with Jackson. I want to be clear that a) this is a fantasy where even though Jackson is a heavy-handed jerk, he’d also never go ‘too far’ and would always somehow be able to tell if Jarahn really needed him to stop (because I say so; hehe), and b) in the real world, very few if any power exchange relationships should lack a safeword in this way. I acknowledge that in a discipline dynamic, it can make sense for certain relationships to employ a sort “consensual non-consent” arrangement under which the spankee blanket consents to punishment at the spanker’s full discretion without an escape valve. But that type of relationship would require a lot of trust and pre-negotiation—and spanking another person in a bathroom on their first date without having talked beforehand about limits and boundaries doesn’t exactly demonstrate the model method of trust and pre-negotiation lol. Anyways, I know this is sort of an overkill note, since all of you know this isn’t real, but I just wanted to make clear that I’m not advocating for subs/boys/girls/Littles/whoever to forfeit their safewords like this!!


End file.
